


What Time We Have Been Given

by Savageseraph



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anger, Angst, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Dark, Desire, Dreams, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Fights, Fingerfucking, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Horror, Insomnia, Kissing, Knives, Loneliness, Loss, M/M, Memories, Nightmares, Non-Consensual, Pain, Swords, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-27
Updated: 2005-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageseraph/pseuds/Savageseraph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like most nights since Aragorn had given Boromir to Rauros, sleep came only grudgingly when it came at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Time We Have Been Given

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caras_galadhon (Galadriel)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/gifts).



> When I found this neglected fic on my hard drive, there was the beginning of a dedication to [](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/)**caras_galadhon**. The only problem is that I don't remember what it was for. Maybe she will. So this one is still for her, with thanks for a better title than I could come up with.

Aragorn made a soft sound of annoyance as he rolled onto his side. Like most nights since he'd given Boromir to Rauros, sleep came only grudgingly when it came at all. Shifting onto his back, Aragorn stared up at the stars, distant and cold. If he was going to be awake, he might as well take a watch and let another sleep. He stood, adjusted his weapons and cloak. He'd only taken a single step toward Halbarad and the other men gathered around the fire when Boromir stepped out from between two of the tethered horses.

The beasts themselves did not start or look up from their feed. The watch made no move to stop Boromir as he strode past them, his green eyes fixed on Aragorn. None of the Rangers huddled around the fire talking in low voices acknowledged his presence. Aragorn stood mutely and watched him.

Boromir paused in front of him and smiled that slightly impish smile he had when he would joke with Merry and Pippin. The cranberry silk of his tunic was dark and clean, like it was in Rivendell before their journey added stains and tears. The bits of gold worked into the rich cloth almost seemed to gleam with their own light.

"This..." Aragorn shook his head and took a step back. "This a dream."

"Aye," Boromir agreed as he closed the space between them and brought their bodies into contact. "But it is a good dream," he murmured as he lowered his mouth to Aragorn's.

Their lips brushed, pressed, parted. Boromir's fingers traced his cheekbones, caressed his jaw as tongues slid and rubbed against one another. When his hands gripped Aragorn's waist and pulled them against one another, Aragorn moaned. By the Valar, he thought this lost beyond reclaiming. The taste of Boromir on his lips, the scent of leather and mail and sweat. The feeling of his lover's hard body pressed tightly against his. Lost.

As if Boromir could hear his thoughts, and since it was a dream, perhaps he could, Boromir laughed softly. "It is a gift," he said, as he licked at the tears on Aragorn's face. "A gift." His hands slid down Aragorn's back, cupped his ass and pulled him harder against his body. "Let us not waste what time we have been given. Tell me what you want."

Want? Besides the destruction of the Ring, there was only one thing Aragorn wanted. He wanted to hold his lover, warm and contrary and strong and tormented and...alive. He wanted to banish the emptiness and need that filled him since Rauros. Aragorn closed his eyes. _It is a dream, and soon it will end. He will still be dead when you wake. You will still be alone._ Better just to wake up and end it now.

Before he could open his eyes, Boromir said, "I think I know." And when he touched Aragorn, he touched bare skin. Aragorn's eyes opened. They were naked. No shrugging off weapons, fumbling with clasps and laces, struggling out of boots. Just skin against skin.

Boromir sank to his knees, kissed Aragorn's hip. "My brother." Then the other. "My captain." He drew a deep breath and whispered, "My king," just before talking Aragorn into his mouth.

_A dream, indeed,_ Aragorn thought, as Boromir pulled him close, encouraging him to thrust deeply into his mouth. When he did, he shuddered as Boromir's throat constricted around him. His fingers tangled in Boromir's hair, holding him steady, even as Boromir's hands curved over his hips. Fingers slipped between his buttocks, rubbed against him. He moaned as two slick fingers thrust into him. They moved with him, thrusting and retreating, conjuring sparks when they curved to brush against him.

His fingers tightened in Boromir's hair, and though he tried to hold back, he thrust harder into Boromir's mouth. "Boromir, I can't..." He twisted, tried to pull back, but Boromir wouldn't allow it. "Going to..." Aragorn gritted his teeth. _Not yet. Not so soon._ "Need..." He gasped. "Need..." His eyes went wide as his back arched and he spilled into Boromir's mouth. He would have fallen if not for Boromir's arms around him, keeping him upright until he could stand on his own. "I never...never thought I'd feel that, feel _you_, again."

"Of course." There was an edge to Boromir's voice that made Aragorn look down at him questioningly. "Perhaps you should have thought about that before you cast me aside on the riverbank."

"What?" Aragorn tensed with the effort of not stepping back, not turning and walking away from the secret shame he nurtured since Boromir's death.

"You rejected me. Banished me from your heart." His green eyes darkened with anger. "It's on account of you I tried to take the Ring from Frodo. It's on account of you I died."

"No." Wrestling with his own guilt was one thing, but this accusation was more than he could bear. He turned to walk away.

"_Yes._" Boromir grabbed his legs and tripped him, pinned him face down. "You killed me as sure as those Uruk arrows. And then you dumped me in the river like a piece of old meat."

"No." Aragorn bucked and twisted as he tried to throw Boromir off him.

"Don't struggle." Boromir's voice was soft, velvety.

The hands holding Aragorn down were cold, and the chill from them seeped into his flesh. Although his body shook with the effort of trying to move just one arm, the most he could manage was a feeble curling of his fingers. When Boromir pulled away and flipped Aragorn over onto his back, his skin was a sickly grey. The arrow wounds on his chest oozed black blood.

"Why the look of horror, my love?" A cruel smile curved Boromir's lips. "Doesn't my body please you any longer?" He spread Aragorn's thighs, pulled them up on his own. His cold hand cupped Aragorn's shriveled cock. "Yours still pleases me."

He drove in, and Aragorn cried out. Whatever wizardry held his body, it did nothing to blunt the pain.

"You're very tight." Boromir noted with wry amusement. "But don't worry. Your blood will ease my way." He gave several experimental thrusts, each sending a spike of bright pain up Aragorn's body. "Besides, even the most stubborn can be made to give ground with the proper encouragement."

_It's just a dream. A nightmare._ Aragorn bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. _You have to wake up. Wake..._

Boromir leaned close, his lips to Aragorn's ear. "Keep the Stone, son of Arathorn. I have others." When he raised his head, his eyes were full of flame, and he smiled at Aragorn's expression and nodded. "The blood of Elendil is much diluted." His thrusts grew longer, harder. "What would he think of you, I wonder, spreading your legs for your Steward?"

Aragorn's neck arched, his mouth opened, moved in silent anguish as he tried to choke back the scream he felt building in his throat.

"Did you really believe you could conceal all your thoughts from me? All your desires?" Boromir pulled out and laughed. "No defense is so perfect it cannot be breached." At the last word, he thrust back in, and Aragorn screamed. "I can see now you don't have my Ring." His lips twisted into a sneer. "You don't have the strength to wield it."

_Wield it..._ Though he couldn't move his head, Aragorn glanced over at Anduril. The sword was little more than an arm's length away.

Boromir followed Aragorn's gaze and laughed. "Do you think I'm afraid of that? Any weapon is only as strong as its wielder. I have nothing to fear from Elendil's sword or from"--he gasped as his thrusts became quicker, harder--"Elendil's line."

Some part of Aragorn realized that the harsh, desperate cries he heard were his own. The pain rode him as hard as Boromir. He couldn't fight back, couldn't escape, couldn't stop the pain. There was...no hope.

"Where have you hidden it, Ranger? Tell me where." The words came as fast as the short, brutal thrusts that punctuated them. "Where?" He moaned then, as his body tensed and shuddered.

Although his body was cold, Boromir's seed was hot as the flames that still flickered in his eyes, and despite the magic that bound him, Aragorn convulsed as it burned his flesh. The pain blinded him, stole away even his ability to scream. His body broke out into a fresh sweat as he felt its poison spreading through his blood.

Without bothering to pull out of Aragorn's body, Boromir reached for Anduril. He picked up the blade, holding it aloft to read the runes on its hilt, and smiled. "You want this, don't you?" He leaned over Aragorn until their lips were touching. "Don't you? Though I wonder which you want more, your sword or mine?" He began thrusting again into Aragorn's body, kissing him fiercely as he swallowed his cries.

Aragorn gagged as a cold tongue that tasted of rancid meat slipped into his mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head as his body spasmed.

Thrusting deep into Aragorn and holding there, Boromir said, "Much as I enjoy fucking you, we have other business here tonight." Pushing away from Aragorn, he stood, his belly and cock and thighs streaked with semen and gore. "I have waited ages to return this favor to the House of Elendil." Gripping the sword's hilt in both hands, he brought the blade straight down into Aragorn's gut, driving it through his body and deep into the ground beneath him.

The air grew dark, cold, thick with the scent of the blood flowing down Aragorn's stomach and thighs, with the smell of bowel. He choked as bile and blood rose into his mouth, spilled out over his chin.

"There will be no gentle slipping into the dark for you, heir of Isildur." Boromir leaned against Anduril, shifting the blade. "You will pay for his treachery and the ease of his passing with your pain."

As the blade moved in him, Aragorn felt the darkness surge up to claim him. Legend said that if a man dies in his dream, that he will die in the waking world. Aragorn wasn't sure if that was a myth or not, but he didn't want to test the truth of it. He wanted to wake up. Needed to wake up.

_Aragorn?_ The voice was faint, calling to him from across a great distance. _Aragorn?_ It grew louder.

"No!" Fire blazed in Boromir's eyes as he gripped Anduril's hilt. Aragorn screamed as the blade was pulled free. "Our contest will end here, heir of Isildur. This night." The sword came down toward his neck in a deadly arc of silver.

_Aragorn!_

Aragorn woke with a start. The curved Elven hunting blade drew a line of blood from Halbarad's throat. The other Ranger did not move, though he swallowed, heavily, once Aragorn pulled the blade back. "It seemed..." Halbarad cleared his throat. "It seemed your sleep was troubled. I did not mean to..."

"Troubled," Aragorn agreed, as he sheathed the knife. He reached out a shaking hand and gripped Halbarad's shoulder. "Thank you"--he almost said "for saving me" before he stopped himself--"for waking me."

The Ranger's eyes narrowed speculatively, though his fingers closed around Aragorn's hand and tightened. "You will tell me if there is anything you need." The words were not a question. When Aragorn nodded his assent, Halbarad gave a single nod, rose, and walked back to add some kindling to the fire.

Aragorn waited until Halbarad started to talk with the others before pulling the Lady's cloak tightly around his shaking body. As he curled in on himself, his cheek came to rest on the worn leather of one of Boromir's bracers. Other nights he clung to the scent of their mingled sweat, as a feeble charm against the pain of Boromir's loss. But not this night. Maybe not ever again.


End file.
